


Mirror

by bluest_skies



Series: Fic Prompts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, On The Head Of A Pin, Set after 4x13, fic prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluest_skies/pseuds/bluest_skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't stand the terror still trapped in his eyes. Can't stand the dead look he sees there sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get past a block on another fic, so I figured I'd do some prompt fics to flex my writing muscle.
> 
> Prompt: Mirror

Dean avoids the mirror as much as possible. He brushes his teeth in the kitchen and could give two fucks what his hair looks like. He sits on the bed and runs the electric razor over his jaw. In the car he looks anywhere but at himself when checking the side or rear-view mirrors. He can't stand the terror still trapped in his eyes. Can't stand the dead look he sees there sometimes.

 “Hey, Bobby's fixed up some sandwiches in the kitchen if you're hungry,” Sam tells him. Dean's been sitting there doing research, staring at the same paragraph over and over without actually reading it.

 He's not. Everything tastes like ash. Smells like sulfur, smoke, flesh burning, death. His stomach rolls and he swallows thickly to keep from vomiting.

 He looks up. “Ok, Sammy. Thanks.”

 Dean goes to the kitchen. Chokes down what he can. Buries the rest in the trash can. Grabbing a heavy glass tumbler from the cabinet, he swings by Bobby's study and grabs a bottle of amber liquid. “Hunter's Helper” they refer to it jokingly. If they only knew how true that description was.

 Heading out the back door, he goes to the painting garage, where the Impala is parked, to hide for a while. He cannot deal with Sam's concern, looks that Sam doesn't think Dean sees. He does. He can't fucking stand it. Sliding into the car, he twists the lid off the bottle, pours some in the glass, tosses it back. He gasps at the burn, feels it slide down his throat and into his stomach where it transforms into a warmth in his belly. For those few seconds, he feels almost purified, the alcohol burning away the fear, the death, the evil, the _shame_ that is eating away at him slowly. And when it fades, everything comes roaring back to consume him. He continues to drink.

 Sometimes it physically pains him, though he knows it's just a phantom pain. It's a sharp, stabbing pain in his left side where he was hooked onto the rack. A dull throbbing where Alistair's nails would dig into the meat of his shoulder as punishment...or praise...as motivation...or just because Alistair delighted in Dean's agony, especially when he was the cause of it. It takes his breath away at times, his muscles seizing in pain and fear that his being free is just a dream. A dirty fucking _lie_.

 The bottle is over half empty and he feels mostly numb when he hears the ruffling of feathers. Wonderful.

 “Cas,” he slurs.

 “Hello, Dean,” the angel replies, his voice small.

 He swirls the liquid around in his glass. “To what do I owe this extremely unwanted visit?” Tossing back the contents, he looks over. “Need another _favor_?” He hopes the look on his face is a menacing one.

 "No, Dean. I...” Castiel sighs. “I wanted to see how you were doing. That's all.” The angel's brow wrinkles in concern.

 The anger that blooms in Dean's chest would almost be startling if he hadn't felt it simmering there for so long. His face hardens. “How I'm _doing_?” He pulls on the handle, wrenching the door open. “Fuck you.”

 Staggering out of the car, he heads towards the trunk, bottle in hand. He hears Cas exit the car and move to stand beside him.

 His hand shakes as he tips the bottle up, taking several long swallows. “You've got some fucking balls, you know that?” he says once he catches his breath.

 “Dean...” Castiel says. “Please.”

 “Please _what_? You have _no right_ to ask anything of me.”

 “I know, Dean.”

 “I did _everything_ you asked, Cas.”

 “You did.”

 “Even though it cost me everything, I did it.” his voice breaks and a part of him almost _dies_. Losing control this way in front of someone. In front of _Cas_. “Damn you,” he says quietly, wiping a hand over his eyes.

 “I want to help you through this, Dean.”

 His laugh is devoid of humor. “Yeah, I think I've had enough angelic help to last me the rest of my life. I'm not interested in whatever you're selling.” Dean pushes away from the car, heading for the exit. He needs to be outside. It is stifling in here with Cas in his personal space. Always in his personal space, in his business. Nosy fucking angel.

Gravel crunches under foot as he moves through the junkyard and he faintly hears Cas' footsteps echo behind him. He sighs, too drunk to deal with this shit. Dean stops abruptly and turns, Cas almost stumbling into him.

“What the fuck to you want from me, Cas, huh?” he shouts.

 Castiel tilts his head slightly. “I want you to be at peace, Dean.”

 “There is no peace for me, Cas. Not now. Not _ever._ ”

 “Dean...”

 The distress he hears in Cas' voice makes him ill. Dean presses his palms to his eyes, wanting to scream. Scenes play like a slide-show behind his eyelids. The wailing, begging, _pleading_ of the souls as his blade slides into their bodies like butter, their blood spilling so beautifully to the ground. How he wears their blood like war paint, with _pride_. How Alistair compliments him, _Such a good boy_ , _Dean,_ as he whispers instructions into his ear, _turn your wrist this way to slice more effectively, pull the blade in this manner to draw out the agony, use their fear to make everything that much sweeter_.

 He chokes and feels Cas' hands settle on his shoulders, pull him close, his voice in Dean's ear.

 “Shh...I've got you, Dean. I've got you.”

 He clutches at Cas' coat, his fingers digging into the angel's arms tightly as he struggles to push it all back down. It kills him to feel Cas' hands wrap around to his back, hugging him close, whispering soothing sounds in his ear. Some in English. Some that sound like Enochian. Dean lifts his head after a few moments, when he thinks he's found some semblance of control and is startled when Cas presses his lips to his. Cas' lips are warm, soft, and though he should feel surprise when their mouths start moving together, he's not.

 


End file.
